The castle seemed strangely empty as Killua navigated his way to the eastern wing. Beneath his feet, the polished stones blended into a sheet of white, stretching endlessly before him. He kept his eyes up to avoid feeling dizzy.

Usually, in the evenings, these halls were bustling with servants cleaning up after dinner and finishing their chores and duties before leaving for the night. The silence left in their absence was unnerving.

Killua forced his legs to move forward anyway.

Affectionately referred to as "The Lounge," the room in which his father waited was a popular place for the servants to gather. Among the smallest rooms in the castle, it contained only a few pieces of furniture. Its prized feature was the fireplace which dominated one wall. In the winter months, its warmth was often sought and treasured.

Outside the room, Killua hesitated to reach for the handle. Heat seeped under the door, and though his father was renowned for his stealth, Killua heard the sounds of wine being poured into a chalice, an empty bottle set on a table.

"Father," Killua managed to say, knocking once. The thought of intruding on his father without permission made his hands tremble.

"Come in."

Killua swallowed and fought the urge to flee. Instead, he turned the handle and leaned into the solid door, easing it open.

Silva stood by the fire, his broad back in shadows. In his left hand, he held a stone chalice, tilting it so that the wine within churned. The flickering golden light caught a few stray strands of silver hair off the king's shoulder, and from the doorway, Killua noticed the stern shadows cast upward on his father's face. In the fireplace, the logs shifted, crackling as cinders rose into the high arches of the ceiling.

"Have a seat," Silva said without facing his son. His tone made it clear that this was an order, not an invitation.

Killua obeyed, settling into the high-backed armchair, every muscle tensed. From where he sat, his father appeared almost mystical, illuminated by flames, skin stark against the darkness of the room. Silva sipped from his chalice, his eyes watching the fire.

By the time Silva set his chalice down beside the empty bottle, Killua ached to escape. Though each tendon and nerve in his body seemed ready to bolt, Killua couldn't stop the words from falling through his lips.

"What did you want to talk about, father?"

Silva slid his slitted eyes over to his son. Something burned behind them, but perhaps, Killua thought, it was just the fire reflecting there. As Silva opened his mouth, Killua flinched, squinting, awaiting the sharp sting of reprimandation.

It never came.

Killua opened his eyes to see that Silva had not budged. He stared directly at the fire, unphased. "You were injured this morning," Silva said. "Illumi informed me. Did the herbalists take proper care of you?"

Lips lodged shut by anticipation, Killua couldn't speak. He managed to pry them open with determination and speak in an exacting tone, one which did not reflect the uneasy state of his heart. "It wasn't a bad injury," Killua said. "And the herbalists did their job well."

"I heard complaints from your mother."

"She complains about everything." As soon as the words left his lips, Killua stilled, feeling the color fade from his cheeks. He prepared to stutter an apology when his father laughed.

Showing a rare smile, Silva said, "That she does, Killua." His expression returned to normal before he continued. "You've had a rough time because of the coronation, haven't you?" Killua moved to deny the claim, but Silva halted him with a single finger. "I know you have. We've put a great deal of pressure on you, and we haven't properly trained you. You aren't yet ready to fulfill the duties of a king."

Killua's throat tightened. It seemed as if the air in the room were filling with smoke, snaking down his throat to choke him. He gripped the edge of the armrests and tried to swallow around the uneasiness, to speak up. Instead, Killua only stare up at his father in terror, the heat of the fire stinging his unblinking eyes.

"The time will come for you to complete your training," Silva continued, turning to face his son for the first time. "You will become a fine leader, capable of commanding armies and laying waste to those who stand in your way." His lips curled back to reveal teeth, white and glistening. "For now, we must focus on other important tasks. Is that understood?"

"Yes, father," Killua said automatically, his tongue forming the words as if commanded to do so.

Silva observed his son, noticed the way his eyes darted ever so slightly between himself and the fire, before inhaling through his nose and rolling his shoulders back. "Quite some time has passed since I last fought on the battlefield," he said. Killua lifted his face, watching his father warily. The tone shift was not something Killua had been prepared for. "To be a skilled tactician, I immersed myself in war. It was all I knew. I studied patterns and weapons, devised new tactics and methods of warfare. In the history books, they may label me a genius. I wouldn't mind."

Absently, Silva bent and selected a thick log, stripped of bark, and tossed it onto the fire. A shroud of cinders lifted like smog, blackening into the darkness. Killua wanted to draw his knees to his chest, an impulse he hadn't felt since he was a young child, made defenseless against a legendary figure he'd had to call his father.

"There is more to the throne than fighting," Silva said, lowering his tone. "We must keep up appearances, and we must deal in more than blood and bounty." He stoked the fire with an iron poker, breaking off bits of flaking wood. "You are old enough now to understand the importance of your position and rank, Killua. The actions you take from here on will determine how fit you are for the throne."

"Father, I don't—"

"In the coming weeks, we will be hosting a number of princesses, countesses, and other nobility," Silva continued. "You will entertain the young women, and at the end of their stays, you will determine whether they are fit to rule by your side."

As his fathers intentions registered, Killua sat up straighter, his breathing irregular. The pain in his head was expected; the ache in his chest was not. "Father, are you suggesting I select…"

"A bride, yes," Silva finished. "The sooner, the better. When the people of this kingdom see that you are allied with another nation, they will rest easy, knowing that you will not act foolishly."

"They all seemed content at the coronation."

"They are foolish when it comes to festivities," Silva said, stifling a snarl. "They'd celebrate a slaughter if the jester strummed pleasantly enough. If time passes and you do not make yourself out to be a trustworthy ruler, they will grow wary. We cannot afford dissent."

Killua rose, unsteady on his feet and uncommonly warm, even before the fire. "I don't see why this is such a priority," he said. "Give me lessons on the battlefield. Foster my tolerance of poison. Beat me near death if you must." Clenching his jaw, Killua blinked away the tears which burned along the edges of his eyes. "But do not force me to do this."

"I'm afraid it isn't an option," Silva said. "You will hold the marriage interviews, and you will select a bride."

With a defiance that startled even himself, Killua moved past his father and threw open the door. He paused in the doorway and looked back to find Silva staring at him, expressionless. Killua gripped the door handle until his fingers were sore. "I will do no such thing," he said. "I would rather die."

Purposefully, he fled, allowing the door to slam shut behind him. Alone in the hallway, Killua moved, not registering the sensation of his heels pushing off the stone. He couldn't calm the racing of his heart, nor could he think clearly. Silva's words had surprised him, but beyond that, they'd infuriated him.

Killua moved faster, his pulse throbbing in his ears and against the skin of his thumbs which curled around his other fingers. No immediate plan arose, no course of action. Killua could think of only one thing to do.

He had to go to Gon.